


No Children Among the Living

by notreallycreative



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Minor Character Death, Multi, implied minty, not the arena though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3495812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notreallycreative/pseuds/notreallycreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wasn’t supposed to survive the arena. But then again, does that really matter? As it turns out, it doesn’t take Clarke a long time to realize that there are no winners among tributes, whether they get to live or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Children Among the Living

**Author's Note:**

> I changed how Thirteen works, mostly because I made Lexa and her people its citizens and it seemed fitting to adjust the district to their way of living, at least to some extent.  
> 

For a moment she sees Atom’s face instead.

Which, well, figures. It’s only been less than two weeks since his death and it is almost the same situation, having to bury a knife in a boy’s neck to end his suffering. They even look a bit similar, with that straight black hair all covered in blood.

The only difference is, Atom’s death was not her fault.

It is a million times easier, ending someone’s life knowing you’re just helping them out, you didn’t start it.

She certainly started it this time. A scarlet stain on the kid’s lap says so very clearly. It’s not like there are any other tributes left. She did it.

Clarke looks at the boy again.

 _Glen Dickson_ , whispers a voice in her head, _his name was Glen Dickson and he was sixteen years old. Seventh District._

Her thigh hurts like a bitch. His ax almost reached the bone before…

She really needs to kill Glen Dickson, and soon. For his sake as well as her own thigh . It’s not like he could survive with the wound from her knife, even if it wasn’t poisoned.

“Glen,” she whispers, reaching for the blade. “It’s going to be quick, I promise. I’m gonna make it quick.”

He doesn’t deserve it. None of them did. She doesn’t need to know much about the other twenty three _children_ to make that statement.

“I – “ he wheezes, spitting blood. “T-was so close, I – “

“You should’ve won, not me,” she finishes for him. “I’m so sorry.”

Bellamy would’ve agreed with him, probably. He wanted Atom to be the new victor. Atom, a boy from the Seam who had the first full meal of his life on a train to the Capitol, whose family was big and loving and just as hungry.

Of course Blake would wish to save someone like that, someone like _him_.

 _Well_ , she snickers inwardly, trying her hardest not to let her tears fall, _it didn’t exactly go that way, did it._

Glen lets out a strangled sob as she pushes the knife into his jugular.

Then it’s over.

(It’s not. It won’t ever be over.)

*

When she wakes up, she’s already in Capitol.

“How are you feeling?” someone to her right asks. She knows that voice.

Raven. It feels so weird that of all the people that could have been by her side, it is most relieving to hear the Capitol born and bred stylist who Clarke only talked to a couple of times in her life.

“I’m fine.” She tries to get up, but then a strong hand appears from her left, putting an end to that plan. She looks up to see a familiar face. Its expression is surprisingly warm.

“Your final interview with Cage is in the evening. That gives you two hours before the prep team starts cleaning you up. Rest while you can.”

Anya’s words are oddly comforting, so Clarke obliges, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Just this interview?”

Is that really it? One horrible meeting with a man who looks like a vampire, a couple of hours of watching the worst three weeks of her life – and that’s including the time after her father’s death – and the whole thing ends, just like that? She can go home and try to live just like she used to, as if nothing’s changed? It seems too beautiful to be real.

Her mentor lets out a peculiar high pitched sound which probably translates to laughter in the Secret Language of Anya.

“No.”

Of course.

“I’ll tell Bellamy you’re awake.”

The woman starts for the door. Before opening them, she turns back and kisses Clarke on the cheek.

“Don’t ever be sorry again,” she whispers and it’s not meant to be reassuring. It’s a warning.

A warning she might want to keep in mind.

She leaves them after that. Raven sighs, laying down next to Clarke and grabbing her hand.

“I knew you’d do it.”

“I didn’t. It’s still so unreal.”

“Mm. Say so if you need me to pinch you. Maybe it’ll turn out to be a dream after all.”

“Do I get to choose what I wake up to?”

“Hah!” Raven snorts. “You wish. But I’m afraid this is not a dream. You’re stuck in a reality in which your life probably sucks. On the bright side, your clothes don’t. At least the ones I make.”

“And thank the gods for that.”

They spend the next two hours huddled together on the bed. Clarke’s thigh doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did before but she’s afraid to fuck it up anyway and it makes for a decent excuse to stay in place. It’s a little bit unnerving, after all that time of constantly being on the edge, but Raven’s presence is very comforting and after a while Clarke doses off.

Just in time for the prep team to march in.

*

She has her first nightmares on the train back.

Raven only hugs her closer without waking up and Clarke is endlessly thankful that her friend decided to accompany them for those two more days. It’s absurd to think that they’ve known each other for less than a month, almost as absurd as the fact that soon, they will be separated for half a year. She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to survive that.

Next time she dreams of the arena, the tributes are replaced with people she loves. She kills them all.

Anya shoots Bellamy a meaningful look when Clarke joins them for breakfast. They’re both sporting the same bags under their eyes as the ones she saw earlier in the mirror. She waits for a single second.

“You’re one of us now. You’ll hate it.”

She figures it won’t take her long to develop a peculiar kind of love towards Anya. She’s probably halfway there already.

“Now listen,” she tells them both. Bellamy raises his eyebrows, startled. “You’re both still kids, which means you don’t know shit. And there are several things every victor must know to survive.”

“We’ve already been to the arena,” reminds her Blake, very visibly displeased with being treated as a newcomer. “Don’t call us children.”

“You are,” barks Anya, almost losing her stoic posture. “Know this: you might’ve left the games, but in the end, it does not matter. Victors are tributes forever. Capitol is our arena. And none of us are getting out of this one alive.”

So, really, it’s hard to blame anyone but Anya herself when that night Clarke actually wakes Raven up with her screaming.

*

As harsh as the words are, Clarke cannot deny the truth they hide. She realizes Bellamy doesn’t know much about being a victor himself; he only won a year earlier. It’s like a miracle, really, two years in a row for District Twelve of all places. Sure, it’s happened for Two and even One and Four, but Twelve? They’ve only had three victors before them, one who won the tenth games, Anya who had to figure everything on her own, without a mentor and, well. Bellamy’s father, if the rumors are true.

So, yeah, he’s a newbie, just like Clarke. He didn’t have to experience the pain of not having your tribute survive, at least not fully. Yes, he trained Atom, not her, but still.

It’s almost impossible to win three years in a row. She knows they’re going to try anyway.

*

Bellamy is still fuming when they reach Twelve. He says a dismissive goodbye to Raven and Maya, rushing to be the first one on the platform.

“Ready?” Raven asks her.

“No.”

“Figures. Suck it up or something.”

They hug for the last time.

“Call me when you get back home,” Clarke tells her friend. She already misses the woman.

“I will.”

Then she steps out of the train.

Her mother is the first person she sees and, honestly, couldn’t it have been someone else? Anyone.

Wells is next, but at least he doesn’t try to get close.

Abby hugs her before she can spot anyone else.

“My baby, I thought I was going to lose you.”

She did, a long time ago, but Clarke doesn’t bother to correct her.

She’s numb. It’s not new, but with Raven around the feeling was muffled, almost comfortable. Now that’s gone.

“I knew you’d do it! I knew!”

The words aren’t spoken towards her. It’s Octavia, the infamous sister who hid under the floor for most of her life, throwing herself into her brother’s arms.

“I told you, Bell, next year Twelve’s gonna win too! You did it!”

Well, that’s a load of bullshit. He did close to nothing to help Clarke individually. Sure, he’d thrown a couple of advices that ensured his survival on the arena, but that was for the benefit of her and Atom both. It was Anya who made her questionable victory possible and Bellamy knows that better than anyone.

It doesn’t matter. Octavia can think whatever she wants. Even if that means idolizing her prick of a brother.

Who cares.

*

It takes Abby a while to realize she is not welcome in Clarke’s new house.

There are a few upsides to being a victor and the possibility of living in her own home, away from the estranged mother, is one of the biggest ones. Even if her new neighbor is Bellamy Blake.

She likes Octavia, though.

The girl is over a year younger than her, still with two Reapings ahead and at first Clarke tries to stay away. When she was thirteen Thalia, a Seam girl from her class, was reaped and had her head smashed against a rock during a bloodbath. They weren’t the closest of friends, but it still hurt a bit too much to see her die and since then Clarke has been careful when making new friends. Octavia is stubborn though, slowly building herself a nest in Clarke’s heart and before she knows what’s going on, they’re sitting on the porch of Blakes' house, laughing about Anya’s complete lack of humor.

“I mean, have you _ever_ seen her even smile? I know I haven’t!”

“Nah, man I don’t think so – “ she stops when remembering that one time it did appear. After that talk with Cage, when she managed to convince them all that she wasn’t truly sorry for killing Glen.

“Clarke, are you all right?”

She presses her lips tight, nodding. She should probably call Raven, even if she has no idea what to say. It’s not like they can talk freely about those things.

“She’s fine.”

They both raise their heads to see Bellamy walking toward them with arms full shopping bags. He always spends his afternoons buying half of the Hog, even though it’s way too much for him and O.

He stops by their armchairs.

“Everything is just great, isn’t it, princess?”

She hates that nickname. She hates _him_.

And it’s downright idiotic how he always pretends the games aren’t a big deal in front of his sister because O isn’t stupid. A little naïve, maybe, and certainly a huge romantic, but not stupid. Everybody knows what the games are.

“Perfect,” she claims, glaring.

Octavia sighs.

July this year is unbearable, hotter than it's been in ages. They spend the mornings sweating in the garden, now yellow from the sun, and the afternoons on the porch, slurping icy cold lemon water. Sometimes, Clarke tries to draw her new friend, since she’s supposed to work on her signature trait, but O is way too impatient and fidgety to stay still for more than two minutes at a time. Roma joins them a couple of times. She is Bellamy’s new girlfriend, or rather “something of that sort”, because Bellamy doesn’t really do girlfriends. They don’t have that much in common, but she’s nice enough and a much better model, especially with those sharp features.

(She tries to draw Anya once or twice, but the woman gets way too nervous when people are staring at her. It doesn’t end well.)

Summer is already turning into fall when Clarke’s leg hair finally grow back. She greets the change with a relief. It’s been weird without them.

Octavia laughs when she tells her that; even Bellamy smirks a little.

“Lucky you,” he decides, and for once it actually sounds genuine. “I still can’t produce a proper beard.”

“Yeah, but that has nothing to do with the Capitol,” O says, “It’s ‘coz you’re the weak bitch in the family, that’s all. _I_ will get a beard sooner than you.”

They start to bicker, probably forgetting about Clarke’s existence, and for a moment everything is just fine.

If you would later ask her if it lasted, she’d laugh.

Of course it didn’t.

*

Clarke has no idea why on earth would she ever get drunk with Bellamy Blake.

She still does it, though.

It’s her birthday and she hasn’t told anyone. Her mother knows, of course, and so does Wells, but she hasn’t spoken to either of them in months, so they don’t count.

And Bellamy has gigantic amounts of alcohol in his house from all those trips to the Hog.

O is nowhere to be seen, which probably means she’s gone to visit Aurora’s grave and decorate it with red leafs again. She does that almost every day now.

It’s cold, but they still sit on the porch, mostly because it’s the only place in the house that isn’t bugged. Bellamy passes her a bottle of moonshine and takes one for himself.

“To the…” he trails off. Is there anything they could drink to? “What do you usually raise your glasses of refined wine to, princess?”

She shoots him a glare. Her mother’s a healer for fuck’s sake. Just because Clarke did not spend her childhood starving like the Seam kids doesn’t mean she had it good. It’s still Twelve.

“Who says I’ve ever had refined wine, career?”

That always gets him angry, but well, he asked for it, didn’t he? He did volunteer for his games; and knowing what they are better than most, Clarke can never understand why. Daddy issues, maybe.

Sure, he isn’t what she calls him. But she isn’t a princess either.

They drink in silence.

“I’m not a career,” he tells her several hours later, when both of them are finishing their second bottles. “I didn’t want to, I didn’t. I’m not one of them.”

He stares down at his hands. Even slightly hammered, Clarke can tell he’s close to crying.

“Mother… victor’s kids are often picked for tributes,” he hiccuped “so our mother wanted to make it so that nobody knows I am his. But, y’know, everybody fucking _talked_ and everybody _knew_. So she hid O. To – to make sure she’ll be safe.”

He is definitely crying now. Clarke would’ve comforted him, but she has no idea how.

“But it didn’t work ‘coz they found her and mom was killed and then the president came and said –“ a shaky breath “said that it’s an awful behavior, almost like we don’t trust the Capitol, almost like we don’t want the honor of rep-presenting our district and I said that it’s not true –“

“So you volunteered for her. Because they would pick her otherwise.”

She feels like shit.

“I’ll stop calling you a career.”

But Clarke can tell it’s not a great help, because Bellamy is still a mess, what was left of his moonshine spilling onto the wooden floor.

“Hey,” she tugs his arm “Hey, it’s alright. You did what you had to do. You’re shitty company most of the time, but a much better brother, yes? It was necessary. If you didn’t go, they would’ve picked your sister.”

He looks at her like a drowning man who was just thrown a rescue wheel. And then asks that question she’s trying very hard not to think of:

“What if they do that anyway?”

*

Raven comes in the winter, along with her prep team and Maya, who all try their hardest not to look put off as they walk through the town. Clarke runs out of the house to greet them. Well, Raven.

“I’ve missed you too,” the girl laughs as they hug. “It’s been awfully dull in the Capitol. Though I suppose it’s still better than the so called interesting part of the year.”

Since her stylist only got the job right before Clarke's arrival to the Capitol, she introduces her to a curious Octavia. Anya and Bellamy both hide in their respective houses for as long as they can. And then it starts once more.

She says goodbye to her leg hair as Keenan applies the first paper thingy to her calves. It hurts almost as much as it did the first time when they rip it off.

“So?” Raven asks, as Clarke finally sees herself in a mirror.

“You know how much I love it.”

 _As in: I don’t. At all._ They’ve learned to speak in code during those months of separation.

She really would’ve hated the dress if it was made by anyone else. It’s baby blue and shiny and _happy,_ with giant puffed sleeves, as Capitol as it gets, really.

Actually, she might hate it regardless.

“What inspired you to create something like that?”

Her friend gives her a pointed look. Clarke hopes there aren’t any cameras installed in her home.

“It occurred to me how the victors are very much a part of the Capitol really, rather than the Districts. It is your ‘I’m going home’ dress of sorts.”

If Clarke knew how much the president will disapprove of how she handled things with Atom and Glen…

She just wanted to help.

Raven is smart, though. Way smarter than most people. They’ll just need to play it like nothing happened, like Clarke is utterly joyful to be the victor, like it’s the greatest honor that could ever befall a poor district teenager. It’s going to be fine.

“You look ridiculous,” Bellamy tells her later, his face torn between amusement and disgust. “I can’t believe your stylist is making you wear that. Didn’t you say she was, quote, ‘more competent than anyone else’?”

“I did,” she throws him a disapproving glare. “And, if you really have to know, she is. Certainly more than you.”

_She understands what you so obviously fail to realize._

That shuts him up quite efficiently; Raven isn’t the only person she was forced to develop a secret language with. The fear of being bugged is highly educational.

“It’s not that bad,” decides Octavia, squinting her eyes at the dress. “Weird, sure, but bad? I’d wear it.”

“You won’t,” Clarke and Bellamy tell her in unison, their voices raised and alarmed. It’s paranoia, Clarke knows, but as she spares a glance at her fellow victor, she can see him looking at her, just as tense. They both fear the same.

Octavia glares, offended.

“Whatever,” she mutters. “Be assholes. I was going to go visit mom anyway.”

The Victory Tour is horrible, especially in the richer districts and Seven. Clarke wants nothing more than to yell that she hates what happened, hates herself for poisoning the careers’ food and for killing Glen Dickson. Instead, she smiles in that weird way people from Capitol do, waves at the crowds and accepts bouquets the children give her.

By the time they reach District Ten, Clarke desperately craves being able to spend the rest of the trip completely drunk.

It’s almost nice to finally arrive at the Capitol. No dead children, no accusing glares. Just a bunch of silly living dolls squealing with delight at her, Anya and Bellamy. It sucks, but somehow not as much.

She sees Finn again, the stylist who worked with Atom. He doesn’t seem to be very interested in clothes though, and it takes Clarke half a minute to realize he only has the job because of Raven.

Still, she likes Finn. He speaks and looks more like a real person and doesn’t congratulate her on killing five people at once. It’s nice.

Bellamy and Anya both seem to dislike him. Blake calls him ‘dumb Capitol shit’ and states that “the kid wouldn’t be able to take anything seriously if his life depended on it”. Raven doesn’t speak to him for the rest of their stay.

During all this, Clarke can’t help but feel like she’s being watched more than she ever was.

*

They come back after what seems like an eternity.

Octavia isn’t there to greet them.

*

Bellamy has to be sedated.

Octavia comes back in the evening, after they both almost lose their minds and Clarke gets close to freezing her fingers off while looking for the girl all over the district. She tells them she forgot, didn’t realize that was the day they come back, but Clarke knows it’s all bullshit. Something has happened and O is keeping it away from them.

Winter melts into spring before they realize what it is.

Or rather, who.

Lincoln is probably in his mid twenties. Bellamy looks like he’s going to need more morphine.

Learning to deal with his sister's choices takes him a while.

“Do you love him?” Roma asks O one day, when the three of them are sitting on the porch. It’s late march, still quite cold, but always better than being listened to.

“I do,” O says, no doubt in her voice. “But keep it a secret for now; my brother isn’t ready for that piece of information.”

The image of Bellamy finding out pops into Clarke’s mind and she snorts.

Roma stops coming over soon after.

*

Clarke has never been this nervous for the reaping. It’s for O, she tells herself; not because she is horrified of facing it all again and has no idea how to deal with it. Anya has been preparing her a little – but the woman won’t be there with them.

Maya jumps onto the stage, all giddy. Her hair is shiny silver this year, blinding the audience whenever they move. She welcomes them, reciting all that’s necessary, and reaches for the first bowl. Blake tenses on his seat next to Clarke.

A name is read and they both relax for half a second. But then they actually see the kid.

Bellamy grabs her hand and Clarke can see a mixture of relief, guilt and determination written on his face, the exact same one that she is feeling.

The girl’s name is Charlotte and she is twelve years old. In this moment, watching the girl tremble on the stage, desperately trying not to cry, she knows nothing could stop her from trying to make that tiny child win.

And then Maya calls Wells Jaha.

Clarke’s hand is released, but that’s all she can register at the moment, because how can this be possible? Wells isn’t some Seam kid. He never had to take tesserae, not once. This is bullshit.

Her second thought is to blame herself.

She’s about to do just that, but then Thelonious’ face catches her attention and it’s enough to know she isn’t the one at fault. He is the one who fucked up one way or the other and his son will be the person that pays for it.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , a voice in her head whispers. _Wells betrayed you. You don’t care if he lives or dies._

*

She is sitting in front of the Justice Building, waiting for the tributes to be done with goodbyes, when Abby approaches her, for the first time in months.

“I know what troubles you,” she tells her. Clarke doesn’t scoff only because her mother actually might be right this one time. Also, she doesn’t have the energy.

“I wanted to tell you a long time ago, but didn’t know how,” Abby says, glancing at the bench Clarke’s sitting on, as if deciding whether or not she should join her.

She doesn’t, instead taking a deep breath.

“Wells didn’t do it. He let you believe they executed your father because of him, but that was never true. I should have gone to you with it, at least after we split ways, but I was hoping, I don’t know… that maybe one day we can be a family once more. Despite everything.” She sighs, looking down at her wedding ring. “But now…”

Clarke stares at the woman. She found it too hard to keep in touch with her, especially after Abby saved the life of one of the peacekeepers that executed Jake Griffin, but this…

“He didn’t do it,” she croaks finally and her words don’t sound nearly as strong as she would’ve wanted them to. “It was you. You... oh my God.”

Her mother reaches for Clarke, but she doesn’t allow her to get close.

“Don’t touch me!” she yells, taking a step back. “How dare you? You should have confessed right away! You let me believe my _best friend_ was guilty! Don’t... don't ever speak to me again!”

She turns away and runs straight to the train, without saying goodbye to Octavia, jumps inside avoiding the startled looks from awokses and throwing herself at the table with moonshine and whisky.

She knows only one thing.

Wells cannot die. Not now, after all this, not ever.

*

It takes her a couple of moments to realize Bellamy’s avoiding her. Understanding why, however, comes rather naturally.

“It’s not like I want her to die,” she tells him as soon as this year’s tributes are out of earshot. “Of course I don’t.”

“But you’re willing to sacrifice her for a prissy asshole who’s never had to work a day in his whole life,” he shots right back, angry. “She is a little kid, Clarke, don’t you think that matters more?”

That _asshole_.

“I’m not willing to do anything! Honestly, how can you expect me to take any other stance with this? He is my friend, Bellamy!”

He snorts then.

“A friend that you haven’t talked to in over a year. Out of pure choice. We’re neighbors, princess, did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

It’s quiet for a moment, with the exception of noises coming from the trains engine.

“You don’t understand,” Clarke tells him, sitting down and pouring herself a glass of whiskey. It must be her third today, at the very least.

(Her head is starting to spin. It’s nice.)

“I was wrong about him, okay? That’s all you need to know.”

She nods to herself, staring at the glass of alcohol.

“It’s what they do in other districts anyway, right?” she says, leaning a bit to the right. She might be more drunk that she thought. “Every mentor for his own tribute. So you work on Charlotte and I on Wells. We will cooperate but avoid getting in each other’s way. And the moment one of them dies – whichever it is – and the other manages to survive for a bit longer,” she leans to the side even more, her drink spilling onto the marble floor “then we team up.”

Bellamy agrees and they settle in this awkward alliance.

In retrospective, Clarke decides it might have been one of the stupidest things they’ve ever done.

*

Wells looks like he’s going to throw up when she hugs him for the last time before he’s lifted onto the arena.

"I don't think I'm capable of killing anyone," he tells her.

“You can do it,” she whispers, burying her nose in his shoulder, breathing him in for the last time. “You can. It's easier than it should.”

He hugs her back.

“I guess I’ll see you again, then.”

She waits until he can’t see her to burst into tears.

*

They lose.

The thing is, Clarke _knew_ it was going to happen. She remembers looking at the tiny little Charlotte, and at Wells who was so clearly picked to punish his father and _knowing_. But that couldn’t change the fact that she hoped, desperately clung to the possibility of Wells living somehow, and if not him then maybe at least Charlotte.

It takes three days for Wells to be eaten alive by a mutt. The scene lasts for almost half an hour and is combined with Cage and Emerson laughing and saying to each other how “well, that’s not a pleasant way to go, of course!” Bellamy isn’t there to witness it, having decided it’s high time he takes a nap at last, but Raven stayed with her and therefore gets to listen to the sound of flesh being torn from the bone, while the two men talk about how they’ve missed the tradition of mutts being used in the arena. “I don’t remember them appearing much in the last five years,” Cage notes. “But I think we can all agree, we’re certainly glad they’re back!”

Raven hands her a bottle of vodka. Clarke gladly accepts.

She doesn’t remember much else from that day.

*

Charlotte is killed two days later.

She dies at the hands of the girl from Four who throws a net at her first, before delivering the final blow.

Bellamy immediately gets up and leaves the room, swaying like a drunk man. She follows him and says nothing as he throws up by the bathroom door. His girl’s cries can still be heard, as the game makers replay her death, claiming it to be “very nicely executed, those Four kids just have that _something_ in them, you know?”

Clarke feels like vomiting herself. She reaches for the other victor.

“Bellamy…”

“Leave,” he tries to growl, but still sounds too much like a wreck. She can see the tears in his eyes. “There you go, princess, just what you wanted. Pity your goddamn prince won’t win anyway.”

She wants to kick him, yell about what a hypocrite he is, since he rooted for _her_ to die only a year ago, but it doesn’t happen.

She hates herself too.

That night Kyle, a tribute from District Three who won the year before Bellamy, brings liquor to their floor along with Finn, Raven and Echo, a victor from Seven and they drink everything until Clarke almost can’t remember why they’re doing so.

A night after that she cries herself to sleep.

*

A boy from Two wins, a silent sixteen-year-old with a mean scowl on his face, who defeats his last two opponents by cutting their stomachs open. The girl who killed Charlotte is practically split in half, her entrails spilling onto the grass. Then it ends and the newest victor is lifted from the arena. Kyle raises his glass.

“Welcome to the family, buddy.”

Raven smacks him on the arm.

“He said the same thing when you won, a year ago,” she whispers to Clarke. “And apparently when Bellamy did too, earlier. The fucker thinks this is all a joke.”

No, he doesn’t, she thinks, watching the fellow victor. None of them are that stupid, not anymore.

But Raven can't understand that. And she never will.

*

She keeps a fake smile plastered on her face as Cage interviews Nathan Miller. She and Bellamy are attacked with questions as well, as soon as the grilling of the newest victor is over, and the blue-skinned woman that does so notices how it’s “such a pity” their winning streak was broken this year.

Clarke wants to punch her in that stupid dyed face. _I’d give you a reason to go blue_ , she thinks, imagining wrapping her fingers around the reporter’s throat.

She realizes what she’s thinking a second later and makes up an excuse to leave and panic by herself for a minute.

Bellamy finds her after an hour or so, sobbing by Raven’s workplace.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you that day,” he says finally, twisting his fingers. “It… you had a right to root for your friend, whatever weird shit happened between you two and I know you didn’t want Charlotte to die. I won’t say I’m sorry for doing the same with you and Atom, but…”

“But you shouldn’t have judged me to be an awful person based on something you also did,” she finishes for him and he nods, sitting down next to her.

She knew Bellamy wouldn’t apologize for wanting her to die in the arena. Clarke certainly would not.

“Thank you,” she grabs his hand, giving it a little squeeze. “I… I really needed to hear something at least a little bit nice today."

They look at each other.

“We’re gonna do better next year,” he decides. “Our people are going to win. Not some career scum that stabs little kids.”

Clarke closes her eyes. _Our people_.

She has no idea what that means.

(They get to know Nathan Miller when he arrives in their district during his Victory Tour. Bellamy doesn't utter a bad word about him afterwards.)

*

At some point she stops being from District Twelve, instead becoming a weird creature that’s partially from the Capitol and partially from nowhere in particular.

She hates it.

O spends less and less time with her, juggling between school and Lincoln. There is something off about her boyfriend, apart from the age, but he seems to genuinely care for Octavia, so Clarke lets it go.

When she’s alone she drinks and Anya is the most unwelcoming person in the world, so really, there is only one choice.

She befriends Bellamy.

Sure, they’ve been allies, mentors and even confidants, but friendship is not something they’ve ever aimed for. Friends are the ones you care for. Friends are the ones you lose.

Still, Clarke finds herself invading the Blakes’ house day after day, looking, desperate for something to do.

They could decide how they want to handle the next games, but that’s not what either of them ever wants to think about.

She knows Bellamy used to party a lot during that first year, before she came to live next door. Hell, she even went to one of those parties once, dragged there by her classmate, Lilly. There was a giant crowd in the house and Blake must’ve had at least five girls around him.

It’s what Anya had in mind when she called him a child, Clarke realizes.

It's gone now. They both know better.

That year she learns everything there is to know about Bellamy Blake and vice versa.

They team up to save the kids that are reaped for the next games. They both die within minutes.

In a way, she’s almost glad. It’s not like the alternative is actually better.

Miller pats her on the shoulder when it happens. She gives him a strained smile.

“Have you seen Finn?” Raven asks a day later, as they're watching the career pack bicker over a map. Her voice seems casual, but Clarke has spent last two years communicating with the woman almost only verbally and she knows when something is wrong.

“I haven’t,” she admits. “Why? You know he doesn’t have to stick around.”

 _But he does it anyway, like Raven_ , reminds her a voice in her head. _This isn’t normal_. She tenses, trying not to panic.

 _It’s okay_ , she tells herself. _Finn doesn’t matter. You don’t care if he dies._

Lies, lies, lies. Even if they aren’t especially close, she still likes him. She still cares. And, more importantly, Raven loves him.

They don’t speak of it, but everyone sort of knows: Finn does things on the side. Things the president wouldn’t appreciate.

Not that that’s especially unheard of. When you’re a victor, you usually happen to be informed surprisingly well when it comes to people who meddle in the Capitol’s business. There is quite a lot of them.

As it turns out, there are those who aren’t content with children being forced to kill each other for entertainment.

Clarke has no idea what is it that Finn does specifically. He implied it a couple of times when they talked, something about starving children. She has no idea why he would want her to know.

Raven does find Finn in the end. Clarke wishes she didn’t.

*

It was a suicide, Maya tells her. Only it wasn’t and Clarke can hear it in the escort’s voice. Finn was reckless and spontaneous, but not suicidal. They killed him. They found out about whatever-it-was-that-he-was-doing and killed him.

Soon, it turns out he worked on delivering supplies to Twelve.

Raven comes to her after that.

Clarke doesn’t see her coming, but suddenly she’s being hugged by someone who buries their nose in her shoulder blade and “promise me you had nothing to do with his work in Twelve,” Raven whispers into Clarke’s shirt “ _Please_. Promise me you had no idea.”

She might need Bellamy to go survive the Capitol with her every year, or Octavia to brighten her day, but it’s Raven who she cares about the most, more than she ever cared about anyone, probably. And she knows her friend won’t be able to go on without Clarke on her side.

“I promise,” she says, truthfully, awkwardly reaching for the woman. She’d hug her back, but her arms are currently pinned to her sides. They stay in such embrace for a moment.

“Thank you.”

The boy from Three, Kyle’s tribute, wins by what seems to be almost an accident.

Clarke’s glad.

*

They don’t talk on the train back.

It’s a silent agreement they have. Train is to be quiet. According to the other victors it really pisses the Capitol off – after all they go through quite the trouble to install all the cameras.

But Finn _just_ died. It's only been a month.

Clarke knows Bellamy feels like shit for not liking the guy.

He probably shouldn’t.

She can’t help but wonder how many other people in the Capitol are working against it. Raven… it’s scary to think that she could be one of them, but she’s more than likely to be a revolutionary of sorts. And after what happened with her partner, she certainly will want to get revenge.

Clarke hopes she’ll be smart about it.

“I feel like we don’t do anything with our lives,” she tells Bellamy one day, as they’re walking to the Hob for their daily routine. It sounds like whining, but they’ve gotten to know each other well enough to speak in this code almost fluently.

_We should join the resistance._

She's not sure when did that happen, this idea that they have to work together, no matter what. But they do.

“Why? Did you find a dance class that we could attend, princess? If that's so, sign me in.”

_We should._

She doesn't mention her idea again.

Because before they can figure out what to do, Octavia introduces them to Indra.

*

She finds comfort in Bellamy that year, in a way she never thought she would.

There were those couple of times with Raven, after Finn, but it always turned out a bit too emotional, with her friend remembering her boyfriend almost as soon as they got their clothes off. She later confesses she never slept with anyone else but him and now Clarke. They don’t have sex after that.

Bellamy is easier though, especially since they live in the same district and can actually enjoy the luxury of rooms without cameras. It’s a hundred times simpler to fuck when you don’t have to worry about a blanket covering two moving bodies.

So they keep coming back for more, not sure what is it they’re exactly looking for, until it's impossible to tell what's feelings and what's simply pleasure.

“Do you think we’re actually together?” she asks him one day, not looking at his face, as they’re sitting in the Hob, eating Nygel’s soup.

Bellamy chokes on a piece of meat.

She nods, agreeing.

*

The games this year are unbearably long, almost two months, and Clarke just wants them to end, finally end.

She has no idea where the hell does the dorky kid get a _gun_ , an actual fucking _gun_ , but when he does, it’s as good as over.

That’s probably why they sent it to him, Clarke concludes.

If only it didn’t take them that long.

Her and Bellamy’s kids both die in the first month.

Anya told her once that you get used to the pain. Maybe it takes a couple more years.

Or maybe she lied. It seems more than possible.

She spends most of her time with Raven, Bellamy and Kyle. Maya tags along once or twice and Clarke decides she might actually start to like her. She is not nearly as giggly and happy with no crowds around, making Clarke suspect it’s all just a mask.

Miller visits them sometimes along with his new best friend, Monty Green, who won the latest games, but usually it’s just the four of them, pretending to have a blast.

It gets easier when all of their tributes are already dead. Clarke hates that, but then again, she hates most things these days.

It’s there, with music louder than life and after a few rounds of liquor, that Clarke decides to whisper in Raven’s ear everything they’ve learned from Indra, about the Thirteenth District and how there are people like Lincoln who infiltrate the enslaved districts. People like Anya, Echo.

She can see Raven was already told some of those things, but that doesn’t matter.

When they sober up, Clarke half expects the president to know everything and execute them at any moment, like Finn, but nothing like that ever happens.

*

She goes to visit her mother when they return.

Because, really, when you think about it, they’ve all done horrible things.

She wants to make amends, but it’s awkward and Clarke gets Abby to promise she will still keep some distance – even if they are going to be on talking terms again.

When she returns, Bellamy is waiting for her on the couch. She’s not sure when did she move in with him – they were probably leaning towards it from the beginning, though.

“That took a while,” he notes, as she shrugs off her shoes.

“I just thought it was appropriate to stay for tea.”

They do this thing in the house, acting like they don’t love the people they care about. It might not be believable, but it’s something.

O is the only person with whom they don’t even try to pretend.

She sits on the couch next to him. He’s watching reruns of the latest games.

She looks at Bellamy.

_Why?_

His mouth forms a thin line.

_To remember._

*

Years later, whenever Clarke thinks of that dreaded time of her life, she always tries to convince herself that it was worth it.

And maybe it was. Maybe Lexa was right, sacrifices need to be made, that’s how war works.

But with that said, it’s still astonishing how she can look back at that already tired, wronged girl with blood on her hands that she once was and marvel at how little she knew about the world. It’s rather depressing, really.

Bellamy tells her to stop living in the past. They can’t build anything in the present if they don't actually focus on it.

As true as that might be, Clarke still can’t help but remember.

*

She smiles at the camera. Her practiced grin looks perfectly natural.

There is no rebellion, no. But there are words whispered in the right ears, truths that are waiting to be said out loud, carefully constructed sentences that can mean certain things. There is Lexa in Thirteen, receiving reports from Lincoln, Anya, Echo. There are thousands waiting for a spark.

Nobody is taking the fight to the streets. But it exists nevertheless and Clarke is more than ready to join.

So for now, she smiles even wider.

There is no rebellion.

Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the last scene happens years before the second to last one.
> 
> I know there are several Hunger Games fics on this site alone, hell there is even another one (at least I only found one) that shows Clarke and Bellamy as victors. So I went back and reread it and decided they're not similar enough for it to be weird - at least in my opinion.
> 
> Monty is in the Capitol along with Wick for reasons. I know technically you only need one female mentor and one male mentor from each district, but I'm gonna ignore that for the sake of implying minty. Lets say none of the female victors from Three wanted to come.
> 
> Victors from the last years, chronologically: Echo (7), Kyle Wick (3), Bellamy Blake (12), Clarke Griffin (12), Nathan Miller (2), Monty Green (3), Jasper Jordan (5), Emori (2), Monroe (4), John Murphy (9)  
> I'm leaving it up to you whether there were games beyond that, or did the rebellion happen right after them.


End file.
